


Thrice the Eagle Struck

by Niedergeschlagen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anachronistic, I can't describe the style it's a full caesar salad, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16235864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedergeschlagen/pseuds/Niedergeschlagen
Summary: “Do you think there is too little love in the world?” Marius asked suddenly. “L’Aigle?”Bossuet thought for a moment. “I think there is a surplus of love. There is so much love and so few people to give it to.”“I thought your group might love humanity as a whole.”“We do but there are only so many people who are willing to accept that love,” Bossuet replied.





	Thrice the Eagle Struck

 

1

Bossuet wouldn’t necessarily say he studied law. He had a vague ambition towards law. Or more so, law had loosely gripped him with one of its long-reaching monstrous tentacles that slightly nauseated and terrified him. To put it simply; Bossuet’s study of law traversed in a parallel line to Bahorel’s study of law, which was to say, away from a law degree.

In a freak accident, he still found himself at a lecture in the law faculty building on the first day of the semester, wedged between Courfeyrac and someone he only knew by face, not name. He was unlucky with names too – to the extent where the loud trains and honking trucks passing by as people introduced themselves or fire alarms going off had stopped being comical and started being a nuisance. _C’est la vie_ , Bossuet thought when the woman sitting next to him said her name (she was a friend of Courfeyrac’s; he wasn’t keen on knowing the exact nature of this friendship) and Enjolras crashed through the door, fully eclipsing her words, with such ballistic force that the large glass pane windows reverberated and the entire student body gathered in the lecture theatre turned to look at him. He did not seem to notice, too entranced by whatever he was currently thinking of.

Enjolras climbed the stairs and deposited himself next to the woman.

“Are you quite fine?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I am, thank you. I was held back by… circumstance,” Enjolras replied and busied himself with pulling out his laptop from his bag.

Courfeyrac turned to Bossuet, susurrating: “Want to wager on those circumstances?”

“Affirmative action,” Bossuet whispered back, pointedly not allowing Courfeyrac the satisfaction of imparting words of ‘wisdom’ on the circumstances of Enjolras.

Courfeyrac laughed boisterously to himself nonetheless, most likely thinking up witty lines to encapsulate whatever forsaken tableau he had in mind. Then he looked around at the slowly filling lecture theatre. There were about thirty odd students there. “Ah, Marius isn’t here.”

“Who is Marius?”

His next-seat neighbour waved his hand in a large semi-circle, nearly cleaning off the head on his own neighbour on the left. “Marius Pontmercy is an old friend. I sublet him for a while as he was working as a translator. He is resuming his study of law this year.”

 

Marius Pontmercy was also a no-show. He did not arrive before or after the lecturer did, nor did he pick up the phone when Courfeyrac called him after the lecture.  

“The line is busy,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug. He was scramming the syllabus into his bag one-handed, all the while tapping away on his phone. Suddenly, the thrust one of the course outline papers to Bossuet.

“I already… have one?” Bossuet said slowly.

“I know but sadly I will be absent next week, and you know how Blondeau gets about attendance. If Marius asks him for a course outline next week, Blondeau will tear him apart in front of everyone.”

“Oh, you’re probably correct. I’ll find your Marius next week before the lecture.”

“Thank-you! You are a miracle-maker!”

“Do not let Combeferre hear you are walking around affirming miracles,” Bossuet replied. Both of them contemplated the implications of Bossuet’s words before sharing a laugh.

“I will meet you outside in a few,” Courfeyrac said and escaped at a haste that can only be described as bolting, leaving Bossuet to walk outside by himself.

The echo of Courfeyrac’s laughter followed Bossuet outside where he stopped by the wall and leaned against it. Leaning against a wall was almost like reclining and Bossuet had a particular fondness for reclining. He lived to lie down – but only physically. His convictions were far more powerful and his moral backbone stronger than that of a profiterole. He lit a cigarette and patted his pockets for his phone. The syllabus for Marius was folded up neatly in his left jean pocket. The phone was nowhere to be found. He had probably left it at home, again, or lost it. Home was a very generous descriptor of the blow-up mattress in Joly’s living room.

A frazzled-looking young man stopped nearby. He was on the phone with a finger pressed to the opposing ear to block out the humdrum of the city. He listened impatiently and said: “No, no. I have not lost or misplaced my keys. I know I have left my keys inside the apartment. I have locked myself out.”

Bossuet nearly laughed. There was another star-crossed one like himself, a true crusader of ill luck and unfortunate happenstance.

“Yes,” the man said into the receiver, almost desperately. “Pontmercy. P-O-N-T-M-E-R-C-Y. Yes, absolutely, madame. Yes, I am Marius.”

Luck, in a highly out of character stroke, had chosen to be a lady that night. Bossuet raised an eyebrow and stubbed his cigarette against the brim of the bin he was standing next to. When Marius Pontmercy bid his desolate adieu and put away his phone, Bossuet struck.

“Marius Pontmercy!”

The poor noodle was too stressed by his unfortunate circumstance to react calmly for he spun around rapidly to face Bossuet with a look of rabbit-like terror on his rather delicate face. He had what Bossuet would describe as a sweet face, not unlike Joly’s, but his nose was distinctly more passionate for his nostrils flared in panic in a rather impressive exertion of nasal acrobatics.                     

“Hey?” Marius Pontmercy tried. His voice faltered ever so slightly.                     

“You are Marius Pontmercy?”                     

Marius Pontmercy seemed to, for a fraction of a second, doubt his own personhood. “Certainly.”                     

“I have been looking for you,” Bossuet said. He was purposefully playing up his role of the uncanny stranger. He realised that him still holding onto a half-smoked cigarette and standing in front of Marius, towering over his thin and short frame, may have seemed imposing. He tried to suppress a laugh.                     

“How so?”                     

Bossuet reached into his pocket and Marius took a step back before he saw the piece of paper in Bossuet’s hand. Bossuet roared with laughter and handed the paper to the poor lad. “Would you relax! I’m no wily assassin. I have your course outline from Blondeau’s international law lecture. I’m a friend of Courfeyrac’s.”                     

The lad in front of him seemed to deflate with relief. “Oh, thank you.”                     

Marius’s hands were shaking. Bossuet’s brows furrowed. “Did I frighten you? My sincerest apologies.”

“It is fine. I’m not frightened,” Marius said. He lifted his gaze from the paper that he had been poring over for the past ten seconds. His dark eyes held pride and strength that Bossuet hadn’t noticed before. He had a grand gaze that resided in his small, intelligent eyes. He was visibly shaken by Bossuet but he was too proud to admit that. Bossuet admired that about him.

Nonetheless, Bossuet placed a friendly hand on the lad’s arm and smiled at him. When Marius didn’t make to move away, Bossuet gave his arm a little squeeze. “I apologise, anyway.”

Somehow, as if he had something to be embarrassed about, Marius Pontmercy gave him a shy little smile that almost seemed to say he was sorry, too. Then his grand gaze swept past Bossuet and his whole face lit up in recognition.

“My lamb!” someone – Courfeyrac – yelled behind Bossuet. His entire body crashed into Bossuet’s back and suddenly they were all three entangled in a strange, enthusiastic embrace. That is youth, it gives us the strength to embrace our brethren. It is the elixir that heals all wounds.

 

 

2

“What greater thing is there?”

The society held their collective breath and watched as Combeferre in his calm, light rationality exterminated what had to be the last scraps of Marius’s dignity. 

“To be free,” said Combeferre.

A beat. Marius’s face betrayed no emotion but Bossuet felt a painful twinge of sympathy for the poor lad tug down the corners of his mouth into a frown. Sure, Marius was misguided in his beliefs but he wasn’t downright terrible and he hadn’t said anything fundamentally discriminatory. He had just erred and said that self-made millionaires were admirable people – Bossuet didn’t necessarily disagree but years of conditioning by Enjolras and his troupe of anti-capitalists had trained him to flinch at the mention of millionaires.

Combeferre’s clipped tone signalled the end of the meeting. He gathered his laptop and touched Enjolras briefly on the shoulder. Then he walked to the door where he stopped with one hand on the doorjamb. “Listen, kid. If somebody offered you money on the expense of love, wouldn’t you take love?”

He left.

“Love?” Marius echoed to the closed door. He seemed thoughtful but Bossuet could see the hurt in his constitution. Bossuet could also see the terror and regret in Courfeyrac who clearly feared that his friend would not be let back.

Enjolras laid a nearly paternal hand on Marius’s shoulder and said: “Friend, love is the very synonym of liberty.” He, then, also left the room.

The rest of them sat, boggled, and waited for the tension to unravel. Courfeyrac rushed to Marius’s side where they conferred for a moment hushed tones before Marius made to leave. The second the door swung shut behind him, the rest of the society erupted into speech. Bossuet could hear Grantaire wisecracking in his forlorn way and Feuilly engage in heated conversation on the virtue of the worker with some new face whose name Bossuet had not caught.

He stood up, not fully knowing what he was doing, and followed Marius outside. He nearly tripped down the stairs but managed to grip a handrail hard enough that he merely tumbled down four or five steps. Outside, it didn’t take him long to locate Marius who was shuffling his feet in a manner that could hardly be called walking. Bossuet’s shoe caught in a crack in the pavement but it took him only a few seconds to catch up with Marius.

“Pontmercy!” he called out, breathy from sprinting and touched a hand to the Marius’s shoulder.                      

“L’Aigle,” Marius greeted him. He had learned Bossuet’s true surname at the beginning of the meeting (which he refused to bastardise to its more common form in which Bossuet usually signed all documents – to Lesgle). In an inexorably sweet and naïve tone he asked: “Are you going my way?” as if Bossuet had not dashed pell-mell after him to heal whatever shards of his heart he needed mended.  

Bossuet shrugged gaily. “Perhaps.”

They travelled in silence that was comfortable in Bossuet’s end, for he had no need for oration at the moment. He merely wished to enjoy the company of the young man. Marius, however, seemed uneasy with their silence. A few times he opened his mouth, only to close it promptly as no words leapt out.

When they reached the Seine, they crossed at Pont Saint-Michel.

“Accompany me for a bit, please,” Bossuet said. Marius followed him as he veered left towards Square du Vert-Galant.

They reached the green in a matter of minutes and Bossuet sat down on the bank of the islet, under the green foliage of the weeping willow at the very tip of Île de la Cité. Marius sat down next to him.

It was dark outside but the buttery lights of the city illuminated the river. Large golden splotches of light reflected off the back of the benevolent river as if the current was a looking-glass reflecting Van Goghian views of a starry night. There were other people on the bank as well but Bossuet was only aware of the slow breathing of Marius Pontmercy by his side. In the dark, he looked like the orphaned young man he was. The darkness seemed to overtake him.

Bossuet shifted closer. Marius did not move away. Their thighs brushed together. Bossuet’s hands were by his sides, Marius’s were in his lap.

“It’s hard to believe that all of this will be gone someday,” Bossuet said. He wasn’t usually the one for melancholy observations, for those were the province of Grantaire, but the night had made him pensive.

“And to think it has existed for such a long time,” Marius replied. He craned his neck and cast a glance at Pont Neuf behind them. “That bridge has stood in that spot for four hundred years. All the greats of Parisian history have crossed that bridge.”

“Danton, Saint-Just,” Bossuet listed off. He remembered in fondness a discussion similar to the one they were having but between Enjolras and Feuilly where they had romanticised the history of the very bridge, mentioning the titans of history who had most likely set foot on the contraption.

Marius nodded.

Together they looked on; Bossuet at Palais du Louvre, imagining people strolling about in the Tuileries, and Marius straight ahead.

“Do you think there is too little love in the world?” Marius asked suddenly. “L’Aigle?”

Bossuet thought for a moment. “I think there is a surplus of love. There is so much love and so few people to give it to.”

“I thought your group might love humanity as a whole.”

“We do but there are only so many people who are willing to accept that love,” Bossuet replied.

 

 

3

Three sheets to the wind Bossuet and Joly swayed to the music that rattled, unfussy and low fidelity, out of Éponine’s record player. Quite a few of their friends were up on their feet, dancing intimately to the old lay. Joly had his arms wrapped around Bossuet’s neck for balance and Bossuet had his around Joly’s middle.

He was tracking the movements of Marius who was rather awkwardly perched on the edge of the sofa between Courfeyrac and Combeferre who were deep in erudite conversation. Marius wrung his empty hands and made to move but Courfeyrac laid a pre-emptive hand on his knee and turned to smile at him briefly yet blindingly. Bossuet felt a tremor of envy. He wished to be the one laying his hand on the knee of Marius Pontmercy.

Joly sighed against him. “Friend dearest, the longer you wait to confess your infatuation, the likelier the château en Espagne.”

“I am aware that my hopes are those of a fool – ”

“I wasn’t insinuating that,” Joly interrupted him. He pushed Bossuet away tenderly and held him at an arm’s length. Inebriated as they were, they did not cease swaying although officially they had ceased to dance. “I was insinuating that Marius seems the kind to be passionate in love and a little birdie told me a young woman recently caught his eye in the Jardin du Luxembourg.”

Something fierce chafed on Bossuet’s heart. “Then I wish him the best of luck with those endeavours.”

“He has seen this woman once in the park where people pass through in the hundreds of thousands daily, Lesgles. He has seen his fair share of you. I recommend you speak to him urgently. Do not bury your hopes yet, dear friend, for they would not cut the glebe.”

Bossuet pressed his bald forehead against Joly’s. They sighed both, intermingling their warm and wine-wet breaths. “I will speak to him.”

“Good. You do us proud, Lesgles.”

During Bossuet and Joly’s talk, Marius had disappeared from the apartment. There was no chasing after him for the gaping maw of the métro yawned like a fault nearby and without a shadow of a doubt, Marius had entered the netherworld through the ticket barrier. Still Bossuet wandered the rainy streets for a good few hours, contracting thus what would later on develop into a particularly nasty cold. Joly had been wrong; his hopes were a ploughshare that tilled the earth with ease and buried themselves like seed is sown.

 

\+ 1

There had been a new sighting of the young woman and rumour had it, she had given a smile to Marius when they had passed each other yet again in the Jardin du Luxembourg. This had the friends of Pontmercy abuzz for it was not and had not been in a long time in the vogue for Parisian women to dash out smiles to strangers. This meant that Pontmercy’s chance with this woman still stood.

Bossuet’s heart handled this news with dichotomy. A part of him rejoiced for Marius but a part of him wept for the loss of a future. Youth is the time of ardour that outshines all love that comes after, for the love of man’s evening years is strong – it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres – but the dawn of a life sees tumultuous passions that wax only to wane. In youth, love is both suffering and utter bliss. In the junction of youth was Bossuet at his life’s journey, not yet midway through and not having yet lost his footing in a forest dark.

He no longer sought out the company of Pontmercy but merely gave him a civil greeting each time they saw each other. The rest of the time they inhabited the same close quarters during gatherings, he tended to spend his time wrapped in conversation with Joly and Musichetta. One could say he was neglecting Marius but Bossuet did not see the situation in that light. He saw himself, like a true gentleman, withdrawing from a race already lost.

As L’Aigle always closed his heart and ears to the charms of Marius Pontmercy, he did not perceive the Liebesgruβ in Marius’s words when he greeted him.

“Good evening, dear friend,” he would say. “What a fine evening, would you not say?”

In his eyes unabating adoration shone but those eyes were not met by the eyes of L’Aigle. Those adoring eyes would follow L’Aigle around the room and be misted over by jealousy when Joly would press his hand against L’Aigle’s for as not to flutter away on _ses ailes._ Those small intelligent eyes with their grand gaze built a hundred castles in Spain and tore them down in fits of envy; Marius was not familiar with the unusually familiar ways of the society and thus did not know what to make of the bond between his L’Aigle and Joly.

Bossuet, blind to love when it was reciprocated, excused himself from the company of his friends earlier each night. He then retired to the purdah of his own dwellings where he in Byron’s footsteps teetered on the knife’s edge that is the line between Romance and Drama (although often these two are one and the same in practice). After a week or so of ill-received conversations on the weather, Marius found himself on the doorstep of Bossuet who had once again left almost as soon as Marius had arrived.

No longer than a second passed between Marius’s ringing of the doorbell and the door swinging open to reveal behind a dismal Bossuet.

“L’Aigle!” Marius greeted him.

“Hallo?”

“You are L’Aigle?” Marius asked. For a moment, Bossuet grasped at straws to understand why Pontmercy would suddenly need confirmation of his personhood before he fully recalled their first meeting. With a hint of a smile on his lips, Bossuet replied: “Certainly.”

“I have been looking for you,” Marius informed him officially. Then he reached for Bossuet’s hand that was resting low on the doorjamb. “I must confess something.”

“And what might be the subject of your late-night confessional?” Bossuet inquired.

Marius, trepid and sweating, swept his thumb across the expanse of Bossuet’s palm for their hands had come loose of the doorjamb and were now hanging intertwined between them. “Upon our first meeting, a thunderbolt struck me. That or a bolt which bears the inscription of Amor for I now find myself deeply, irreparably in love with you, dearest L’Aigle.”

Usually not the most timid of men, Bossuet found himself nearly blushing at Marius’s declaration. “I feel similarly, beloved Marius. The first time my eyes saw you, they became fixated upon you and would not part from the fine structures of your face.”

“Then why have your eyes not gazed upon me in weeks?” Marius asked. He had taken Bossuet’s other hand in his own as well. “For I would very much desire to look upon those fine mirrors of your soul.”

Bossuet looked at him, and there in those small, dark, intelligent eyes he saw a grand gaze filled with devotion and reverence.

 

 _They must make a queer pair of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies in which they forget to kiss. Pure on earth but joined in heaven. They are souls possessed of senses. They lie among the stars._ [Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_ , transl. Isobel Hapgood, Volume IV, Book 12, Chapter II.]                    

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, truly this is a seminal work of fanfiction. The first fic posted on ao3 that focuses solely on Bossuet/Marius. I am most certainly pioneering this rarepair. 
> 
> This was fully inspired by the scene where Bossuet first meets Marius in the Brick. I was re-reading the novel and their initial exchange struck me as very sweet. For the sake of the fanfic, I did make Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Enjolras and Marius the same age so that they could share a class and have that one conversation. Also, I juggled around with the timeline of Marius's friendship with Courfeyrac to fit the plot but otherwise this is mostly based on the Brick (save for the whole modern setting thing). 
> 
> If you find all of the three references in Part 1, I'll give you a hunty in cash. Meet me at Lambeth North Station at 2:45pm.


End file.
